


Some Kind Of Wonderful

by garrideb, luninosity



Series: The Adventures of Sometimes-A-Kitten James and Extra-Protective Michael [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Animal Transformation, Comic-Con, Crack, Days of Future Past cameos, Fluff and Crack, Happy Ending, James Is Technically Cursed And Very Cuddly, Kitten!James, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Only Temporary Though, Protective Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garrideb/pseuds/garrideb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James might be technically cursed. And might temporarily turn into a kitten at Comic-Con. Michael is determined to be ready for anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind Of Wonderful

**Author's Note:**

> Never really expected there to be a sequel, but garrideb started it, and who can resist geeky fluffy kitten James at Comic-Con?

“James…” Michael leads them both to his hotel bed, sitting down. James sits down with him, tucking one leg up into eager pillow-topped decadence. Gives him a look. It’s a very familiar look. Michael sighs.  
  
“I know how much you've been looking forward to Comic-Con, but you heard what Steve The Idiot Intern—” He’s physically incapable of actually using the boy’s real name. Steve The Idiot Intern turned James into a kitten. And, as if that wasn’t enough, is also responsible for their current predicament.  
  
“—said. He said the position of the moon in the sky was…amplifying Venus's…mystical power, and…” He trips over words, trying to get through the Idiot Intern’s explanation yet again. It’s all gibberish to him. He's never touched an astrology book in his life. Though maybe he ought to. Considering.  
  
James is smiling. Probably appreciating the bed, which, to be fair, equally appreciates him, dark oak and crisp white sheets made to frame artwork freckles.  “…and when the moon is in the Seventh House,” he sings jokingly. “And Jupiter aligns with Mars…”  
  
“James, this is serious!” Interrupting James's singing voice is like corking up the perfect, clearest waters of an underground spring—and, all right, Michael might be a bit biased, but how can anyone not want James to sing, ever, honestly?—but he knows deflection when he sees it, and James is trying to deflect.  
  
“Sorry, sorry.” James sighs. Swings his other leg, tapping his heel against the bedframe. “I do know what Steve said—that this particular pattern of stars and planets causes recent spells to recur. Especially if the witch who cast them in the first place is young and stupid and didn't take mystical precautions.”  
  
“Mystical precautions.” Michael shakes his head at the absurdity of it. “James, there's a chance you'll turn into a kitten at Comic-Con. And I…don't think it’ll be safe for you." He has to shut his eyes against the idea of James getting crushed beneath oblivious feet.  
  
James pats his knee. This is not as reassuring as it could be, not when Michael’s picturing that hand as a fuzzy ginger paw. “You're worried, I get that. But I've thought about this. First of all, it's not like I'll just—poof!—and be a cat. Last time, my head hurt first and I got very drowsy. So we'll have warning signs. Second, you'll be with me, right?”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“So there's that. Third, we don't even know what will happen. Steve said it might be nothing at all, or it might just be aspects of the spell. Like I might stay human-shaped but get some cat instincts.” James's face flushes.  
  
Last time he'd transformed, James had kept his human mind, but little bits of kitten behavior had slipped through: the desire to groom, to pounce, to purr. For some reason this had embarrassed James more than the kitten body of the first incident; Michael’d privately guessed that he thought changes to his instincts were a matter of self-control while changes to his body were out of his control. Michael doesn’t quite understand; it’s all obviously Steve's fault and James has nothing to be ashamed of.  
  
“Well, I'd rather have you suddenly craving tuna and face massages, than have you suddenly weigh two kilos in a crowd of a hundred thousand.”  
  
“All the same, I'm saying that I know the risks and I want to go.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Michael picks up the hand on his thigh. Laces their fingers together; summons a smile. “Well, you make some good points. And it's not like I'll forbid you from going. I'm looking forward to it, too. I'll worry, but I'll just have to keep you on a short leash.”  
  
James's eyes widen. The bed, beneath them, perks up interestedly.  
  
“Metaphorically!” Michael amends frantically. “Just an expression!”  
  
“Hmm,” James says, but lets that one go for the moment. Michael’s quite sure he’ll end up paying for it later, a leash appearing in his suitcase or wrapped casually around James’s wrist during interviews just to make him choke on words mid-answer, but that’ll mean James is still human and at his side. So he can’t bring himself to mind.  
  
They get up from the bed, and go out and say good morning to the security escorts—James offers them each a hazelnut coffee—and make their way downstairs and into the car. Michael holds that freckled hand in his the entire way.  
  
Most of the day passes without incident, though he can't help hovering worriedly when they're out on the throng-swollen convention floor, when James buys a vintage X-Men t-shirt and proceeds to change into it on the spot and nearly gives the bodyguards a heart attack, when James leans down to hug two very tiny fans who say they’ve seen all his movies—James looks shocked at the idea that they’ve watched _Wanted_ , and Michael, just for a second, imagines him as a parent, all overprotective sturdy muscles and exuberant cheers at football matches and storytime in bed, and then has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too sappily in public.  
  
James devours extra whipped cream on his second coffee of the day and seems to have more energy than usual and then gets very sleepy. This may be the fault of the whipped cream, or it may be imminent kitten impulses. He'll just have to keep watching to make sure. Not exactly a hardship, after all.  
  
There's a moment's scare when James seems inclined to nuzzle Norman Reedus over at the Walking Dead booth, and then looks disappointed when Michael pulls him away. "He's very soft. And smells like vintage leather and ice-cream. Vanilla.”  
  
“James—”  
  
“No, only teasing you, sorry. I think I'm fine, actually, I…” And then James stops. “Ah…I do have a bit of a headache.”  
  
That's the first warning sign. Michael takes a deep breath, and tries not to think the _oh no_ prematurely.  
  
But he can't help it. Especially when James yawns, stretching, and blinks at his shirt. “Was that always that sort of...washed-out color?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Oh. Then…oh, no.”  
  
There are some elements of James-with-kitten-instincts that Michael’d discovered, that previous time, that he quite enjoys. James absentmindedly bathing an ear in public will never not be hilarious, for instance. And the exploration of newly sensitive skin, the places behind those ears or under his chin, and the way James had practically fallen apart in delight when Michael’d run a hand along his lower back, safely barricaded behind closed doors back in their hotel room, well. Those particular elements can manifest all they’d like, as far as he’s concerned.  
  
But this is different. This _is_ serious. He’d said so that morning. And now it’s real.  
  
He grabs James’s arm and hurries them off the convention floor. No resistance, which worries him even more; James either can’t or doesn’t feel up to arguing, and he’s unsure which is worse. There's not enough time to get to their hotel room, so any quiet nook or cranny will have to do.  
  
After flinging open several doors and growing increasingly desperate, he finds an empty green room, James now barely upright and stumbling from the oncoming drowsiness. Michael ushers him in, tucked against his side, and then bars the door with a folding chair.  
  
James all but collapses onto the helpful loveseat, and then it's just a matter of moments before blue eyes are framed by a fluffy ginger face, peering up from cushions cheerfully. Michael sits heavily on the floor, back against the loveseat, breathing deeply. He hadn't realized that he'd been holding his breath.  
  
A furry paw pokes at his shoulder, the inquiry obvious. “I'm fine,” Michael replies. “Are you okay? I mean, considering the circumstances.”  
  
James chirps and climbs onto his shoulder. Okay. They’re okay. More or less. He breathes again, in the unused otherwise empty space of the green room.  
  
“Good. I want to show you something. Ah—I'm going to need that shoulder, here—” He sets James in his lap and opens his messenger bag. James had been eyeing the bag earlier, but had been too distracted by the fanboy nirvana that is Comic-Con to ask about it, apparently. Now he's gazing intently, ears pricked forward.  
  
Michael pulls out his iPad first and sets it down within tapping distance of James's paws. “I sort of put together some emergency supplies in case this happened. Like a first-aid kit, but for unplanned animal transformation. I was thinking of calling it the cat-aid kit, but…well, that sounds too much like feline AIDS, doesn't it?”  
  
James huffs in amusement. Taps at the tablet. _Cursed aid kit? Rhymes with first aid kit._  
  
“Has a ring to it.” Michael scratches him behind the ears. “But you're not cursed.”  
  
 _Technically I am._  
  
“I just mean, there's nothing wrong with you. Or…well, the uncertainty is scary, but as far as life complications go, this isn't bad.”  
  
 _Love you._  
  
“Love you too.”  
  
He pulls out more items from his bag: a small, collapsible carrying case—“There are some situations where that might be safer than hiding you in my pocket, you know?”—some shallow plastic saucers, a hairbrush. James is starting to lose interest, however, and keeps glancing at the time displayed on the tablet.  
  
Michael sighs. “You want to go back out, don't you?”  
  
James nods, whiskers perked forward, eyes all bright and enthusiastic and pleased that Michael's listening to him. Michael sighs again. “Back on the convention floor?”  
  
This earns a noise that's closer to an excited chirp than anything resembling a proper meow; James looks only mildly embarrassed by this.  
  
“I'm not setting you down anywhere.”  
  
Another nod, somewhat more impatient.  
  
“And…we only have a couple of hours. We promised Hugh after the panel that we'd stop by his party—I guess I'll be making excuses for you?”  
  
James doesn't talk, this time. Glances away, at the saucers, at the collar—Michael'd figured that at least if they got separated, not that he was going to let them get separated, whoever picked James up would know that the kitten belonged to someone, and would call the phone number, which would go straight to Michael's mobile. Looks back up, and nods again, but the whiskers're drooping slightly.  
  
“I know,” Michael says, softly, and holds out his hands; James bumps his head against one of them, after a second. “I know. I love you. I'll just tell Hugh that you've decided you loathe and despise him, shall I?”  
  
And James glares, and forgets to be quiet and sad, and so the teasing's a success.  
  
He attempts to get James into the messenger bag; James disagrees and tries to perch on his shoulder, and Michael yelps “Claws!” and then adds, “I don't think live animals're allowed on the convention floor, you know,” and James gives him a look that clearly says _who's going to argue the point with you?_  
  
In the end they compromise, James tucked into Michael's pocket, with one large hand hovering protectively around the outside. They tuck James’s clothing into Michael’s shoulder bag—Michael contemplates briefly the possibility of James transitioning back to human out among the crowds, naked and dizzy and confused, and feels his hand tense around the cotton t-shirt, before he folds it away. James doesn’t notice, or if he does chooses not to speak up. Meow up. Chirp. Maybe James just doesn’t feel like making kitten noises; Michael can’t exactly blame him for that.  
  
And, gathered together and armored against all eventualities, back into the wilds of Comic-Con they go.  
  
And no one tells Michael he can't have a kitten, though a great many people coo and squeal about how adorable he is—Michael's not sure whether that means James-the-kitten, or the sight of himself carrying James, though he guesses the former, because James in any form is thoroughly adorable, from his admittedly not impartial perspective—and big blue eyes stare at comics displays and Star Trek phasers and X-Men cosplayers with infinite delight.  
  
Michael sighs yet again, but only mentally, because James _is_ adorable, and never lets himself relax his vigilance. Too many people. Too much noise and bustle and busy costumed bodies milling around, crushing up against each other, hectic. And one tiny excitable kitten could so easily get lost, or crushed, especially when they get to the replica Iron Throne and James starts wriggling so emphatically he nearly plops himself out of Michael's pocket.  
  
Michael grabs him just in time, heart pounding; hisses, “if you want me to let you sit on the Iron Throne you have to behave!” and then smiles apologetically at the woman dressed as a TARDIS who's eying him with curiosity.  
  
James puts his ears back, but nuzzles his cheek along Michael's anxious hand, an apology.  
  
“Right,” Michael says, “okay, then,” and catches the eye of the people running the booth, who're more than happy to wave Magneto to the front of the line, and who don't even object when he sets a tiny tortoiseshell kitten on the spiky black throne instead.  
  
James sits up and purrs, surveying the crowd regally, and Michael grins. He can't not, when James is so obviously happy.  
  
The crowd takes pictures, and makes more cooing sounds. James permits himself to be petted by a few of them, including an older man who plays someone called Tywin Lannister, who declares that James is utterly lovely and scratches him under the chin. James purrs in bliss, evidently forgetting all shame as fantasy geek and kitten ecstasy combine; Michael says hastily, “Right, sorry, we have to go, we have an interview,” and scoops James up, blithely disregarding the squeak of dismay.  
  
They don’t actually have an interview, but they do have Hugh’s party to get to. It’s back at the hotel, in the most expensive suite because Hugh can, and Michael hitches up the shoulder bag and tries to ignore the fact that James is still a cat and hasn’t transformed back yet, hours later, and nudges the sleeve of James’s t-shirt down into the top.  
  
They do need to be prepared. If—when, _when_ , it has to be a when, he can love James forever but he can’t propose to a tortoiseshell kitten and kiss him and sweep him off his feet on their wedding night, not that James knows about those specific fantasies just yet— _when_ James is human again, his clothing won’t come with him. And James suddenly appearing naked in a crowd, even at one of Hugh’s parties, might cause at least some stir.  
  
The clothing, securely nestled in the bag, doesn’t comment. Not very reassuring of it, really.  
  
The room’s packed, full of music and the tang of cigarette—and other—smoke and the drifts of champagne and bodies happily unwinding after a long day of panels and endless friendliness. Michael can sympathize; he likes all the fans, he genuinely does, but it’s stressful having to be constantly ‘on,’ smiling at every question he’s heard before and every person who raises eyebrows like carrying a kitten’s some insult to masculinity everywhere. It’s also stressful constantly worrying vaguely about said kitten, who’s taken a nap in his pocket, not eaten much of anything, and decidedly failed to become human at any point despite the changing swings of planets overhead.  
  
Hugh throws arms around him in hello. Michael attempts to simultaneously defend his pocket with one arm and hug back and not drop the shoulder bag. Fortunately, Hugh doesn’t seem to find anything odd about this maneuver, though that may be the fault of the mostly-vanished beer in one broad hand.  
  
“I’m glad you’re here, right? Someone who knows how to make a decent martini, behind the bar!” That down-under accent changes the last word into something far too innocuous. Michael’s been to Hugh’s parties before. He knows better.  
  
“Fine,” he says, because at least that’ll keep him and his pocket out of the crowd. “Show me where you want me.”  
  
“Oh, can I, now…” But Hugh doesn’t mean it seriously. The man’s happily married, after all, and so the hand on Michael’s waist is only flirtatious.  
  
James, waking up, evidently disagrees.  
  
“Ow! Why’ve you got a miniature sabre-toothed tiger in your pocket? Why is it biting me?”  
  
“He’s very protective,” Michael manages, trying not to laugh. “I think he doesn’t trust you.” James perches on his shoulder, and licks freshly blooded tiny claws, smug.  
  
“Didn’t realize you needed a chaperone,” Hugh says, grinning. “It’s okay, little guy, I like cats. Can I pet you?”  
  
James suffers his head to be scratched. Michael wonders whether James is becoming extra cat-like this time around, and thinks, forcefully, no. Can’t be true. Imagination.  
  
At the bar, he takes over from the poor overworked lone bartender, giving the man a break. He makes martinis and slow sweet old-fashioneds and cool refreshing mojitos; he comes up with a variety of shots because people request them, blue and yellow X-Men layers that taste of oranges and lemon, an eye-popping and very strong magenta-red cinnamon-vodka creation. He’s enjoying himself, he has to admit. It’s not exactly showing off, but it’s close, and, now that he’s not doing it for a living, it’s fun.  
  
James hops off his shoulder and turns himself into a cat-loaf on the bar and purrs. His fluffy presence draws more people over, because kittens’re irresistible. Michael makes a modified version of a Blue Hawaii with extra blue curacao to match those eyes, and Sir Patrick Stewart drinks three of them while petting James from nose to tail.  
  
James glances up at Michael through slitted kitten-eyes; then, as if noticing the worry, opens them more. Stretches out a paw and taps his hand, and Michael breathes again and stops himself just before he would’ve poured rum all over the bar.  
  
While he’s distracted by Hugh’s request for something Wolverine might consume, and coming up with a combination of Canadian beer and lemon rum that’s actually drinkable, Sir Ian McKellen wanders over to collect his partner in crime, and then gets diverted by James’s big blue eyes and fluffy fur. Michael turns around once Hugh’s been pacified and shooed away, and then lunges across the bar.  
  
“What the _fuck_ , Ian!”  
  
“Good heavens.” Sir Ian looks more amused than affronted. Unfair; Michael’s heart’s still pounding. “He seemed to want some. And it’s cream, after all.”  
  
James looks up from the spot where he’d previously been licking Ian’s martini glass, guiltily. His whiskers’re covered in Bailey’s Irish cream and coffee liquor.  
  
“You can’t fucking give that to a kitten!”  
  
“He seems perfectly fine, and he’s so adorable…”  
  
They all look at James. Who puts his head on one side and attempts to appear innocent.  
  
“ _You_ ,” Michael says to James, “no,” and James sighs. Ian looks at Patrick plaintively. “He really did seem to want it.”  
  
“Yes, darling,” Patrick says, “and we’re going to leave now before Michael dismembers you. Have a marvelous night, Michael.” And then tugs Ian away.  
  
They’re alone for the moment, an ebb in the tide; the music blares, far too loud. “James,” Michael says, and then winces, but no one’s listening. “You can’t—you shouldn’t—”  
  
The possibilities freeze his tongue. He’s read all the articles; he’s read everything in existence about kittens and the care and feeding thereof, not saying anything to James, but needing to know. Being prepared. Being ready. For anything.  
  
He knows that a little bit, a single sip, won’t be too bad. Alcohol on its own isn’t instantly toxic; the problem is that James in kitten form is tiny, and the effects will be painfully magnified. James’s whole body could shut down. Systems depressed beyond recovery. Coma. Worse.  
  
He’s pretty sure Ian hadn’t managed to feed James much beyond a tongue-lap or two. But he can hear his pulse skittering in his ears, over the music.  
  
“Please,” he says. “Don’t. When you—when you’re human again I’ll make you anything you want. But please.”  
  
James makes a cat-face at him, but, after a second, nods. Rubs his head along Michael’s hand, an unspoken admission of understanding.  
  
“Thank you,” Michael says, beginning to relax, letting himself exhale and permit the party atmosphere to seep back in while James nibbles playfully at his finger.  
  
And then all at once James is gone. Plucked out of his grasp, someone scooping him up off the bar. Hands, drunken and clumsy, not belonging to anyone they know, and a voice slurring, “Kitty!” at the room.  
  
“ _No_ ,” Michael snarls, and tries to fling himself across the bar. “No!”  
  
James, being hoisted into the air by wobbly fingers, twists around and lashes out with claws and kitten reflexes; there’s a yelp of pain, and then James is out of sight, dropped, fallen into the crowd—  
  
“ _James_ —” He shoves his way through the throng, through the costumes, past Hugh, who blinks at him bemusedly and inquires, “Where _is_ James?” as if expecting blue eyes and freckles to turn up on the spot.  
  
There’s no kitten on the floor. No ginger-cream fluff in view.  
  
“No,” Michael whispers to the clamoring room, the pounding of the bass beat, the spilled vodka on the carpet. No, no. He can’t—he can’t’ve lost James. This can’t be real.  
  
Hugh leans over to stare at the same blank patch of carpet. “Looking for your kitten?”  
  
“I’m— _yes_ , yes, do you know—have you seen him?”  
  
“Ran off that way, I think.” A wave at the connecting door, one of the suite’s opulent bathrooms, Michael thinks. “Maybe he’s shy.”  
  
He shoves out, “Thank you,” and pushes all the fear into one red-hot ball in the pit of his stomach, and runs.  
  
The door’s pushed shut but not locked. He knocks on it, whispering, “It’s Michael,” and then turns the knob and hopes like hell that he’s not about to walk in on anyone.  
  
He does walk in on someone. On James. Lying naked and shivering on the floor.  
  
He kicks the door shut, retaining just enough presence of mind to hit the lock, and dives for that trembling shape. “James!”  
  
“Michael,” James says, shaking, and curls into his arms, head on his shoulder. “Michael.”  
  
“Oh, god, James—Are you all right?”  
  
“A little dizzy…my wrist hurts…but yes. I think so, yes. Kind of cold…”  
  
“I have your clothes. Don’t sit up. Is this where it hurts?” He unfolds that freckled arm gingerly into his hands. It doesn’t look broken, but James winces at the pressure. “Can you move it?”  
  
“Um…yes. I think I just landed wrong. Too hard. Too high up. Oh— _ow_.”  
  
“Sorry!” He stops trying to test the range of motion; it’s an injury, yes, but not bad, the kind that’ll heal in a day or two. Even so, his heart aches at the thought of causing James any more pain. “We should wrap it, at least. I’ve got something in here, I think.”  
  
“You do?” Blue eyes peek up at him, head securely resting on Michael’s shoulder. “Prepared for every potential disaster, are you?”  
  
Michael says, simply, “Yes.”  And James meets his eyes, and, after a second, smiles.  
  
And then sits up a bit more and kisses him. “Better, now. My head, I mean. I love you.”  
  
“I love you.” He pulls items out of the bag: James’s shirt, jeans, his iPad, that first-aid kit. “Can I see it? Your wrist?”  
  
Someone jiggles the door handle, interrupting James’s answer. Michael shouts back, “Occupied!” and then feels the absurd need to apologize, looking back into sea-sapphire eyes.  
  
He doesn’t say the words out loud, but he does say them, in the movements of hands, the offering of first aid, the cautious easing of clothing over a bandaged wrist. I’m sorry. I didn’t take care of you, I lost you, I let you get hurt. I knew this would happen, and I let you get hurt, I couldn’t stop it, and I’m sorry. I love you.  
  
James is fully dressed again, on his feet and standing in the cool white hotel-suite bathroom beside him, hair a disaster that no comb will cure, eyes bright with pain and relief. Steps closer to him, wraps the good arm around Michael’s waist, fits their bodies together. That’s an answer, too: we’re still here.  
  
Michael presses a kiss to the top of his head. Breathes in the scent of him, apple shampoo and warmth and soft cotton and dark hair. They are here, and James let him help.  
  
“Michael?” James says, to his shoulder.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Of course. What do you need?” He shifts position just enough to scrutinize those eyes. “Aspirin? Painkillers?”  
  
“No—well, maybe yes to that last one. But. What you said, this morning. About…life complications. About life. With me.”  
  
“I _like_ life with you, James.” With a kiss, delivered firmly, for good measure. “It’s interesting.”  
  
“Even when I turn into a kitten and shed fur on your favorite shirts? Which is sort of what I wanted to ask you, really.”  
  
“You wanted to ask about…my shirts? And yes. Interesting. I love you. Especially when you try to bite Hugh.”  
  
James pokes very-human fingers into his ribs for that. “Ow,” Michael says, because it doesn’t really hurt, and kisses him again. “Sorry. You’re still you, you’re always you, and this is just something we’ll live with, you know that, I sing in the shower and you’ll likely turn into a kitten once or twice every other month. We’ll live with it all. You’re worth it. What was your question?”  
  
“My question,” James says, laughing now, “well, now I want to kiss you, and I’ve sort of forgotten my words, but—you did say life. With me. You want a life with me. And what you just said—I want—I know this is the strangest possible time to ask you, we’re still in Hugh’s bathroom and I’ve just been covered in fur and you’ve probably traumatized Ian—”  
  
“Nothing traumatizes Ian,” Michael interjects, and then, belatedly realizing what he’s done, “sorry, oh god, don’t stop talking, please, go on—”  
  
“Only if you don’t interrupt me when I’m trying to propose to you,” James retorts, and Michael stares at him and then shouts _“Yes!”_ loudly enough that the echoes must ring through the party outside.  
  
“Nice to know you’re enthusiastic about this,” James says, laughing a little, blushing everywhere visible as if the nervousness has caught up after the fact. Michael loops one arm around his waist, yanks him close, agrees, “ _Extremely_ enthusiastic,” and kisses him again, his hand in James’s messy hair and both freckled arms going around his shoulders, utterly heedless of bandages or kitten-fur on clothing or the avid knocking on the bathroom door, because kissing James forever is more important than it all.  
  
When they finally emerge there's a line outside the bathroom door, Hugh at the front.  “Michael, whatever were you doing in there, you're scandalizing the—oh, hi, James.”  
  
James's grin hasn't diminished one watt. “Hi Hugh.”  
  
“Well, that explains the noises.” Hugh smirks and then suddenly peers closer at James.  “Y’know, Michael has a cat with eyes just like yours…”  
  
Michael blurts out, “James proposed to me!” and Hugh's observation gets drowned out in a wave of excited chatter and cheerful congratulations as the party converges around them. Clearly that distraction’s worked like a charm. Of course, that’d been only half of Michael's motive for announcing their engagement. Their _engagement_ , god.  When it makes him feel like this, how can he not share the news?  
  
As he and James shake hands with a few dozen people, James leans over, eyes glittering mischief, and whispers, “Well now, don't you look like the cat who got the cream.”  
  
A surprised laugh escapes him.  “Even better.  I got you.”  
  
“So you won't be letting me go any time soon?”  
  
“Not a chance.”  
  
“Good.  You might need this, then.” James pulls an item out of his pocket, angling his body so only Michael can see.  It's a leash, tightly coiled.  Navy, with little gold Starfleet symbols. Michael chokes on air.  “When did you—“  
  
“Earlier.  When you were distracted by Ewoks.  It's amazing what you can find here, isn't it?”  
  
That means Michael was carrying it around, oblivious to its presence in James's jeans pocket, while James was kitten-shaped. He's marrying a devious mastermind.  
  
Marrying.  Oh god. _Yes_.  
  
“Stop staring at him like that and get a room!” someone yells. Jennifer, maybe.  He'd argue, but she's got the right idea.  He wants James alone, now.  
  
“Sounds good to me,” James says. Leash still in hand. Smiling at him.  
  
Life with James. Getting a room. Mystical complications, kitten health scares, preparedness, forever. But that _does_ sound good. What sounds even better is the fact that James, beyond any doubt, wants all that too.  
  
So they leave Hugh’s bathroom grinning, hand in hand.


End file.
